A Different World: Part 1 - The Siege of Penthorpe Keep - 10. The Flesheater

It was difficult for Maeglin to walk: His legs were full of pins and needles and it was hard to balance himself with his arms being pinned behind his back. He winced, hating the smell of his own waste, the feeling of it brushing up against his skin. The orcs were laughing and he imagined it was at the expense of his humiliation.

Once in the center of the camp they were surrounded by orcs. A massive hand shoved Maeglin roughly to the ground. He fell over with a grunt and tried to catch his breath, only to feel the palm of a hand slap hard against the back of his head. Stars burst behind his eyes. He shook himself out of his momentary daze and made himself sit up straight. The only relief there was to be had from being out of their cage was the warmth of the fire.

The relief, however, was short lived. A humongous shadow loomed over him, blocking out the moon. Maeglin looked up, up, up, into the eyes of the biggest orc he’d ever seen.

The Flesheater stood close to eight feet tall. His head was the size of a small boulder. Fingerbones hung from his sharp-tipped ears; Maeglin couldn’t tell if the fingerbones were human or elven. Muscles bulged underneath the chief’s thick, leathery flesh like tectonic plates. The only clothing he wore was a kilt; Maeglin realized, with horror, it was made of flesh. Strapped to the Flesheater’s broad back was a massive hammer.

“Spirits of Valhalla,” Valyuun whispered from beside him. “Have mercy on us...”

The orc chief laughed. The sound reverberated from the pit of his stomach; the sound was like the earth parting, mocking, full of cruelty. Valyuun sucked in a breath and flinched away from the sound. The Flesheater stooped down and wrenched Valyuun’s head back by his hair. Valyuun whimpered, eyes clenched shut like a child who tried to tell themselves it was all just a dream.

“They don’t care,” the Flesheater said in the Old Tongue. “Your Spirits have turned their faces away from you.” He released Valyuun and rose to his feet. His blood-red eyes scanned the terrified faces before him before turning to the rest of the camp. “The three counselors we’ll keep and give to Paladin to do as he wishes...but the other two...” He traced a pointed nail along Maeglin’s jawline. Maeglin instinctively flinched away only to feel a boot kick him hard in the tailbone. He sucked in a breath, unable to scream. Tears sprang to his eyes. Had he ever felt so weak, so helpless?

“The other two we’ll eat,” said the orc chief.

Barbaric cheers from every side rattled Maeglin’s skull. This can’t be happening, he thought, surely not. He felt his resolve slipping lower and lower with each passing second. When I imagined dying for my king this was not the scenario I envisioned: to be dinner.

He opened his eyes as a terrible squealing sound came from beside him. He jerked his head to see what was going on. Valyuun was being yanked to his feet. Next to the mountainous orcs he looked like a child, struggling to break free to no avail. “Maeglin!” he sobbed. “Maeglin do something!”

Maeglin tried to rise to his feet only to feel hands clamp around his arms and shove him roughly back down into the dirt. He heard not the laughs of the orcs - felt not the kicks of their feet. For the moment he was deaf and numb. The only thing he was aware of was the sight of his ward being dragged - marched - away from him. The elf who had stood by his side since he was an adolescent, after his parents had been killed by, coincidentally enough, orc raiders. Maeglin could view Valyuun as nothing else but his son.

Now they were dragging his son to a wooden post. An orc stood to the side, uncoiling a long hank of rope. Realizing just exactly what they meant to do only made Maeglin struggle all the harder. Somewhere deep inside his own terror and impending madness, Maeglin thought, This is what a parent must feel when they watch their children being harmed. There is no worse feeling.

Orcs surrounded his adopted son, ripping at his clothes, tearing it away effortlessly until Valyuun stood completely naked. The Flesheater did not partake in the commotion but watched, chortling amusedly. Every few seconds or so he would glance at Maeglin and the other prisoners as if to gloat. He was gloating.

Maeglin, now too exhausted to fight anymore, could only watch as they tied the naked Valyuun to the post. His flesh glowed in the night, in the dancing light thrown by the fire. The nose-hair burning smell of oil stung Maeglin’s nose as an orc emptied a barrel of the flammable liquid over his ward. Valyuun sputtered, tried to turn his head away, choked as the liquid entered his nose and throat.

Another orc stuck a torch into the flames and approached the stake. Valyuun had stopped screaming, stopped struggling; perhaps he sensed as Maeglin sensed there was no use. The Flesheater was right. The spirits of Valhalla did not care, had turned their attention elsewhere.

Valyuun now looked at Maeglin. Maeglin would never forget the look of accusation there: You failed me. I put my trust in you and you failed me.

Then the burning head of the torch touched the straw. The straw immediately went up in flames. The fire itself burned with a greedy fervor, as if sensing prey. Smoke began to rise in the air as the fire spread. Maeglin felt a merciful numbness take a hold of him. He gave himself into it freely, unable to face the bitter reality of his own failures. Soon it will be your turn, he told himself. Tomorrow or the next day, whenever they’re done with Valyuun, they’ll tie you up to the stake and burn you. It was the only comfort he had now.

The flames engulfed Valyuun, starting at his feet and crawling upwards. The sounds of Valyuun’s screams filled the night. There was no getting away from it. Maeglin was unable to put his hands over his ears. Not even closing his eyes provided the faintest sense of relief. Worse yet was the smell of burning meat, the way it made his belly rumble sickeningly with hunger - he hadn’t eaten since arriving at Penthorpe Keep, a night that had happened centuries ago now it seemed.

A stray ember touched his cheek but he felt not the pain.

Maeglin could not say how long he knelt on the ground, in his own shit, waiting for Maeglin to die. At some point it seemed all was silent - Valyuun had stopped screaming. His eyes focused on the stake and the thing he saw before him did not look like Valyuun at all. What he saw was a blackened charred thing without a face or any other defining features. The arms were still bound to the post, raised above its head.

The orcs gathered around it, the chief at the front of the crowd as was their custom. The Flesheater prodded experimentally at the charred meat.

“Crispy,” he said.

More growling laughter.

Maeglin hated them all more than he had ever hated anything in his long life.

Sharpened daggers cut into Valyuun. Smoking hunks of meat fell into bowls, the meat juicy and slightly pink. The orcs were not picky, seeming not to care what part of the body they were getting - it all went down and came out the same. By the time they all hunkered around the fire, grunting greedily, Maeglin had ceased caring about his life. About any of it. What followed was a sort of oblivion in which his eyes were open but he was not awake, was not thinking, was only alive in the most artificial sense.

The thing that brought him to was the sound of a bowl being dropped in front of him. He was still sitting before the fire but his arms and legs were free, no longer restrained. How long had he just sat here, doing nothing, when he could have made a run for it? He looked around, at the pale, sickened faces of Althon, Alagossa, and Viktor and saw they were just as dazed as he was.

Then he saw what was in the bowl.

Valyuun, he thought stupidly. That’s Valyuun they’re trying to feed me.

It was impossible to tell just what part of Valyuun it was. The smell made his mouth water. He felt tempted to sweep the bowl away, to regain a shred of the dignity he’d lost. Then he saw Viktor reach into his own bowl and begin to stuff the meat into his mouth.

No, you bastard! Maeglin tried to scream, that’s Valyuun you’re eating! But the words caught in his throat. Worse yet, Alagossa gave him a look full of sorrow and helplessness, silently apologizing, before doing the same.

                            …

Skold knew he was too late. Someone had died.

It took him and his men a day and half to reach the camp, a day-and-a-half too long. From where he stood, hidden behind a copse of trees, he could see the dying remains of a fire and a charred corpse. Who it might be Skold could only guess.

No one was visible. The orcs would no doubt be sleeping in their tents. If they’d been smart they would have kept moving instead of laying around languorously. Still, if Skold had any hope of raiding through the camp and finding the counselors and Maeglin - if they were even still alive - he would have to do so quietly and quickly. For this reason he wore black robes underneath his furs and not his armor, leaving him vulnerable to attack but allowing him to move quicker and more quietly.

He glanced at Eolyn who stood yards away, a beautiful spectre pronounced only by her pale hair and glowing cat-like eyes. She nodded at him, saying many things at once: The counselors were alive and if they were going to make a rescue attempt now was the time. Skold waved his hand at Konstantine and Sonja and together, the four of them slipped stealthily through the dark. The other men would hang back, only interceding if absolutely necessary. The archers would remain at a distance, retaining the tactical advantage of higher ground. If we get caught it won’t matter, Skold thought, darting out from behind the cover of the trees. Suddenly he regretted not bringing more men with him - but if he had, and they failed anyway, then there would be no one left at Penthorpe Keep. King Yaldon’s army would have fallen in less than two days and his wayward son would win the war plain and simple.

Once the counselors were free and secure, Sonja and Konstantine were to start leading the counselors back in the direction of Penthorpe Keep immediately while Skold and the rest tried to buy as much time as possible.

Eolyn led them through the camp, past tents made of various animal hides. Skold scanned the darkened entryways, listening for signs of movement, willing the orcs to stay asleep. He was reassured, if only a little, by the audible snores coming from some of the tents.

At the edge of the camp he spotted a cage sitting atop of a wooden cart. He counted four shadowy outlines inside, slumped over, their arms behind them. He couldn’t stop the sense of relief from flooding him. He recognized the three counselors, and Maeglin. However, there was one missing.

Valyuun.

Skold suspected he knew who the charred remains at the stake belonged to.

With a signal of hand gestures he motioned for Sonja, Konstantine, and Eolyn to stop and keep an eye out while he worked on freeing the prisoners.

There was no time to alert Maeglin and the others to his presence. Skold produced two pins from the folds of his robes and started working on the rusty lock. Within half a minute he threw the lock to the ground and opened the cage, slipping silently inside.

“Skold?” Alagossa whispered, making him cringe inside.

“Aye,” he whispered.

Tearfully: “Oh thank the spirits of Valhalla...”

“Shhh, you must be quiet. When your wrists are free and I get you all out you must follow the others to the trees. You must do it quickly and quietly, do you understand?”

She nodded.

He cut through her bindings and made his way to the other two counselors. Althon and Viktor said nothing, only nodding their appreciation. The three counselors climbed silently out of the wagon without a word. Skold signalled for Sonja, Konstantine, and Eolyn to start leading them away from the camp. The more of a headstart they had the better. Skold turned his attention to Maeglin.

At first he thought Maeglin was dead: the elf had not moved once or showed any signs of being aware of Skold’s presence. For a moment Skold contemplated leaving Maeglin and making a run for the cover of the Swineshead Wood. He had what he’d come here for. Nothing else mattered. Still, teeth gritted, muscles tense, he found himself reaching for Maeglin’s neck, to feel his pulse.

“You’ve always had impeccable timing,” Maeglin said in a slurred, sarcastic voice. His shadow head inclined towards Skold.

Skold bit back a curse. “I thought you were dead.”

Maeglin chuckled, a dry, weedy sign. “I’m not, thought I want to be.”

“I’m sorry about Valyuun. I know you cared deeply about him.”

“Oh you saw him,” Maeglin said, sounding genuinely surprised. He’s lost his mind, Skold thought. He’s lost his mind from shock. “I’m surprised there’s anything left of him. It’s nice of you to say you’re sorry though I know you don’t mean it. You’re incapable of feeling anything. I always thought your father was the cruelest bastard but you’ve got him beat, yes you do...You should’ve left me here to die once you had the counselors free.”

“I thought about it.” Skold cut through the last of the rope and helped the older elf to his feet. “You smell like dung.”

“I shit myself.” Maeglin sounded apologetic. And then: “Why didn’t you? Why didn’t leave me?”

“I guess I was having an odd moment of compassion. Now stop your fool’s babbling and let’s go.”

“Go where?” said a deep voice, in the Old Language.

Skold cursed silently. He turned and faced the hulking outline of the Flesheater. Orcs lined him on both sides. Skold had been so focused on Maeglin he hadn’t heard them - any of them. The Flesheater gripped his massive warhammer with one hand. Skold saw no choice but to face the orc chief head on, come hell or high water. He helped Maeglin off the cart and leapt to the ground.

“Finally we meet,” Skold said casually. “I was a little disappointed not to see you at Penthorpe Keep. Do you always let your grunts do the fighting for you?”

The orc chief shrugged, unfazed by Skold’s taunt. “Battle tactics, patience, make sure your enemies can’t see you coming. There’s nothing like parting skulls with my hammer but I place equal weight on using my brain as well - a mistake many orc chiefs have made.”

Skold smirked. At this point he was simply trying to stall the orc chief. Each passing second was a chance for Sonja and Konstantine to get the counselors closer to safety. “Very commendable. Now I hate to cut things short, but I need to cut and run. There are things that need to be done, I’m sure you understand.” He raised his head to the sky and shouted, “NOW!”

Shadowy shapes darted out from the bare trees. Skold shoved Maeglin towards them. “Go!” he shouted. “Put as much distance between yourself and this camp as you can!”

Maeglin tottered a few steps in the other direction but only stared back, looking reluctant to part with Skold. Skold scowled, frustrated with Maeglin’s slack-jawed stupidity. “Stay and die then and join your ward!”

It was a low blow but it woke Maeglin from his stupor and got him moving. Skold spared another second to watch him go before turning his attention to the orc chief just in time to see the Flesheater swing his massive hammer at a passing elf. The force of the blow crushed the elf’s head into the rest of the body. Skold’s ears pricked up at the sickening wet sound of crushing bone. The orc chief wrenched his hammer free. Bits of scalp and hair clung to the hammerhead.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Skold knew his chances of winning a fight against such a large foe were futile - he could only hope to use his speed and smallness to his advantage. But Skold had never cared about his own wellbeing. If I’m going to die let it be while doing what I do best and love the most. Unsheathing two daggers with six inch blades from his robes he blew a whistle at the orc chief. The Flesheater turned, broad shoulders heaving up and down. He laughed at the elf.

“You must have some balls elf, if you think you can take me one-on-one,” said the Flesheater.

Now it was Skold’s turn to laugh. “Actually I don’t. My father had my genitals cut off.”

For a second, just a second, the Flesheater hesitated, caught off by Skold’s comeback. Then, with a loud, thunderous bellow, he charged, the hammer raised above his head. Skold whirled around and ran in the other direction, heading for the cart where Maeglin and the counselors had been caged. An orc stepped in his way to intercept him but Skold was faster. With a slash from both daggers the orc fell to its knees, black blood spurting from its neck.

Arrows whistled from the sky, digging themselves into the Flesheater’s back, and arm. Each arrow that hit their mark only seemed to make him angrier. He ripped them out, throwing them easily to the ground. Smoke rose into the air as the basilisk venom seared his flesh. However this did not stop the orc’s pursuit. It would have driven a normal orc to their knees but with an orc of the Flesheater’s stature it seemed to have little affect.

Skold risked a glance over his shoulder. The orc chief was nearly on top of him, raising the hammer above his head, now bringing it down. Before the hammerhead could flatten his head into a pitted ruin Skold fell on his back and used the momentum of his body to slide underneath the cart. The hammerhead slammed into the ground hard enough to make it shake.

The Flesheater let out a roar of frustration; with a sideswipe of the warhammer he sent the cart flying end over end.

Knives flashing, Skold lunged forward, a blur of black and silver. Like a dancer he slashed at the orc chief, at his arms, at whatever vulnerable piece of flesh he could reach, ducking and weaving the orc’s attack. However due to the orc’s size, for every attack the chief attempted, Skold had to match it with three in order to be able to inflictany real damage.

Quite suddenly the orc chief changed tactics. While he feigned a swing with one hand, he lashed out with the other. His fist connected with Skold’s face and sent the elf stumbling back. Stunned, Skold was unable to regain his balance. He fell back into a tent and sent it collapsing to the ground. Blood, hot and coppery, flooded from his nose. He could feel it trickling down the back of his throat, making him gag. Tears fell down his cheeks, mixing with the blood. For a momentarily he was blind and deaf. Vibrations from the ground were the only sign of the orc chief’s approach he was aware of.

Skold tried to get to his feet; they betrayed him, crumbling out from underneath, so he crawled. The Flesheater kicked him over. Skold rolled over on his side just in time to see the Flesheater raise the hammer over his head for the fatal blow.

“What, no begging for your life?” the orc chief asked in the Old Language.

Skold spat blood onto the Flesheater’s flesh-made kilt. He gathered his magic, waiting for the proper moment to strike.

“Whatever is left of you I will enjoy feasting on,” said the orc chief.

Before Skold could unleash a defensive spell, a dark shape leapt through the air onto his back, a shrill howl emitting from its throat. Skold watched, fascinated, confused.

Whatever it was that had come to his rescue, it wasn’t alone. There were more coming from all sides of the camp, coming out of the trees. They had a strange, drunken way of moving, as if their joints were all twisted and wrong.

Then he smelled the rot and knew.

Revenants.

Corpses resurrected by death magic.

By necromancy.

Hands grabbed from behind and wrenched him to his feet. Skold snarled, ready to defend himself. His daggers were gone but he still had magic and his own body at his disposal.

“It’s me!” Maeglin hissed. “We need to go!”

Skold nodded numbly but mostly watched the commotion happening around him. The dead were not attacking his men, only the orcs. Why? Why only the orcs? Three of them were clinging to the Flesheater now, tearing at him with their jaws. He twisted and roared, throwing them off of them, crushing them with his hammer; but for every revenant he crushed one or two more would swarm him.

Though he had seen them at work before and fought them, he was in awe at seeing such power, the power to animate the dead at work, to use them as a weapon. No wonder the fae had outlawed the practice of Death Magic. Such power mocked the natural laws, corrupting the wheel of life and death.

Many of the orcs stood and fought, but some Skold saw, were running, deserting their chief. Assuming they were caught, just as it was with the elves, they would be executed. But unlike with the elves it would not be through simple beheading but through more agonizing means.

Skold didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay and watch. But what will happen then, he wondered, when they’re done tearing the orcs apart limb from limb? Will they turn on us like flesh hungry beasts or will they heed their master’s call first?

“Elfling,” said a deep, familiar voice.

But not in his head. He was hearing it, actually hearing it - and Maeglin could hear it too because he turned with Skold towards the sound.

The necromancer stood just yards away, as solid and real as Skold himself. He was not as tall or broad as the orc chief but he was still impressively built: Well over six feet tall, closer to seven; broad in the chest and shoulder, displaying a muscular build, even under the robes he wore. Stubble grew along the the jawline of his face. His features were hard, unmerciful as if carved from the roughest stone, the nose long and narrow, the eyebrows bushy. The eyes, as yellow as the sun, burned into Skold with an intensity unlike anything Skold had ever felt before. His head was completely shaved, easily showing the sharp-tipped ears.

The necromancer was an elf.

Skold was overcome by a burning lust. Since he had no cock there was simply a burning feeling in his belly, a slackness in his face that was usually completely composed. His mouth hung slightly open, his eyes half open. He began to walk towards the necromancer. His head danced with images: the necromancer stripping him naked and fucking him right there, in the cold, in the middle of the camp while everyone slaughtered each other. There was no resistance to the emotional arousal he felt, only a yearning to give into it, to embrace it.

This is what it feels like to feel, to be awake, to be a live - truly alive, he thought.

The necromancer seemed to read Skold’s very thoughts for he smiled and said in his powerful, resonating voice, “Not yet, elfling. Soon - very soon. Soon we will be conjoined in body, mind, and soul. We already are.”

Skold didn’t know what the necromancer meant and didn’t care. Through the smokescreen of lust he felt a strong stab of disappointment - it was not unlike the feeling he got whenever Solomon degraded him in front of his mother and sister for not being more like his father, back when Skold had known what it felt like to feel pain. The pain of rejection.

No, he wanted to say, if only he could find the words. I want you now. I need you now.

But the necromancer was stepping back, receding into shadow as if he hadn’t been there at all, as if only a ghost or a figment of Skold’s imagination; and now Maeglin was yanking at Skold’s arm, pulling him away, the distance between Skold and the necromancer becoming a river, an abyss that Skold feared he would never have the opportunity to cross again.

The camp was now overrun with the living dead. Skold could see the Flesheater on the other side, making his way for the trees, shouting for whoever would follow him to retreat. It’s time I start doing the same thing, he thought.

Skold shouted for his own men, now moving on his own, without Maeglin pulling at him; only the words sounded as if they were coming from a stranger and without the usual power. His voice sounded half-hearted, dreamy. And like someone in a dream he ran after Maeglin, weaving through the trees that towered over him like skeletons.

He felt like he’d taken himself prisoner and thrown away the key.

                        ...

For a time Skold felt completely disoriented. Time had displaced itself. He spent the next few moments in his head, trying to reconstruct the last few days, put everything into order while his body worked autonomously.

He was convinced it was three days ago, and it wasn’t an orc camp he was running from but the village of Boar’s Head; the siege of Penthorpe Keep hadn’t happened yet which meant Valyuun was still alive and he hadn’t encountered the necromancer and his army of the undead.

The necromancer.

Soon we will be conjoined in body, mind, and soul. We already are.

He was so lost in his own thoughts he almost read head first into Maeglin. Maeglin had fallen to his knees, panting, chest heaving. Even in the dark Skold could see the sheen of sweat beading his forehead, the dark circles around his eyes. The older elf looked not much different from the revenants, the ones not too advanced in decay.

“I need a...minute,” Maeglin panted. “Just a...minute.”

“We don’t have a minute,” Skold said. Hadn’t he said something similar while fleeing from Boar’s Head? His usually eidetic was failing him. “We have to keep going.”

“Quit hounding at me you heartless creature!” Maeglin snapped. There was genuine anger in his voice, something Skold couldn’t remember having heard before.

Skold relented, leaning against a tree. He too, was tired. Once again he’d gone days without sleep, running from one battle and charging into the next. When I get back to Penthorpe Keep I’m giving the title of general to someone else. I don’t want it.

Brittle twigs crunched underfoot. The pale faces of fellow elvesmaterialized out of the dark. Slowly more gathered. After a dozen appeared, Skold said, “Is this all?”

“It would seem so,” said a female orc. There was a gash that went from the edge of her cheekbone to the edge of her nose; the wound didn’t look deep and the blood had already begun to clot. She didn’t seem to have any other injuries. “The rest must’ve perished.” She shrugged as if to say: It could be worse - we could all be dead.

Skold had no feelings about it whatsoever. The rescue mission had been a success, assuming Sonja, Konstantine, and the counselors hadn’t been intercepted in some fashion.

His nose burned. His face was covered in blood. Along the way to the orc’s camp they had come across a half-frozen stream, now several miles away, There he planned to stop if only to wipe the blood from his face.

“Let’s get moving,” he said, ignoring the groans coming from what remained of those he’d brought with him.

He walked quickly, eager to get out of the cold, eager to get back to Penthorpe Keep. It would be well into tomorrow before that happened. They hadn’t brought horses for need of silence. Now he regretted not having brought them. Maeglin jogged to catch up, his face stricken.

Skold already knew what was coming and dreaded it.

“What happened with you back at the orc camp?” Maeglin asked.

Skold feigned ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Maeglin snorted. “Do not insult my intelligence with mockery. You know exactly what I’m talking about. What happened with the necromancer? Did he put you under some kind of spell? I’ve never seen you act that way before...not with anyone...”

Act like what? Skold almost asked, but stopped himself. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading. “I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.” He began to walk faster, wanting to put distance between himself and Maeglin.

Maeglin, however, had no inclination to leave the subject alone. “Do not avoid me, Skold! Answer me...”

Skold stopped and gave Maeglin a stare cold enough to stop the older elf in his tracks. What Maeglin saw in those silver eyes was the promise of murder...his murder…if he did not leave the subject alone. Though he knew he was older he did not have Skold’s skill. Skold was unusually strong for an elf his age, to the point of being unnatural, even by fae standards. Up against Skold, Maeglin knew he would lose. Plus there had always been...something wrong with Skold, something not altogether there. He remembered how Skold had not shed a single tear for Lea, his beautiful mother. How he’d laughed when Maeglin himself told Skold and Sonja their father had died; he’d laughed as if it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard, as if it was the best new in the world.

With this knowledge, Maeglin felt his bowels loosen once more, threatening to betray him. Not wanting to feel the shame of humiliation once more he simply nodded and let Skold walk ahead of him.

                            ...